On the Midnight Mile
by Hobbesian
Summary: For as much confusion and pain that you live in now, you’re not totally sure that you want to completely surrender the memories of your dream to the reality that is Seeley Booth." Post-The End In the Beginning. A deconstruction of Booth's character.
1. Prolouge

**On the Midnight Mile  
**_by Hobbesian_

_Description: You push the thought out of your mind, for as much confusion and pain that you live in now, you're not totally sure that you want to completely surrender the memories of your dream to the reality that is Seeley Booth._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Bones, or any original works that are mentioned here. I'm just playing around in Booth's brainpan for the time being._

_Author's Note: Booth's recovery from his coma didn't quite sit that well with me. More at the bottom. Oh, and this is written completely in second person narrative. You (pun fully intended there) have been warned._

**Prologue**

You're sitting in your bathtub with your beer helmet on, taking small slow sips. The doctors had mentioned that drinking alcohol would inhibit your recovery, but it's felt like almost a lifetime since you've drank anything, so you figure that just a little bit won't hurt that much. Besides it's not like you could be doing any _worse_ now.

You sigh and relax further against the tub, letting the music coming out of your record player wash over you. You can't quite remember who it is that's playing, or why you even liked them, but this was the record that was in the turntable when you set this whole situation up. The record labeled itself as 'Somewhere Between Heaven and Hell' by Social Distortion, and at a quick viewing of the other records in your room you noticed a few other records by this group, so you suppose that you do like them.

You look over to the stack of comic books, well _graphic novels_ (the distinction rings a bell in the back of your mind, a long forgotten indignation), that are on a chair next to you. You had flipped through a few of them so far, but you can't really seem to find any real pleasure in reading them.

And that's just it; you can't remember who you are anymore. Yes, there are flashes here and there where muscle memory takes over and you do things that you can't quantify the reasoning behind, but it's almost like your slate had been whipped clean. Sorting out who you are from that dream you had in the coma has proven to be rather difficult, and there are times where you wish that you didn't have to. Your life made much more sense in the coma than it does in the waking world.

Sweets, you remember Sweets (or do you? You're not totally sure), mentioned that because of how similar – yet different – your dream was to reality that it would take some time figuring out the distortions, and the disconnects, and allowing your brain to re-pattern itself to reality. He had mentioned that this was perfectly normal with someone who had lead a traumatic life like you had, especially coming out of brain surgery and a coma.

"A traumatic life" Sweets had told you. A life that you didn't quite remember, stories that felt like just that – stories. Sure, the evidence was all around you and you had reactions that you felt slightly ashamed about (you didn't like people anywhere near your feet; apparently you had been tortured – _tortured! _– once and it involved your feet), but you didn't know why! The person that you were in the dream was just enough of a difference to the one you are now that some of the differences just do not make any sense in your mind.

Sweets had told you today how you liked to relax when you got stressed out, which is what you were currently doing. Apparently Bren – no, not Bren, _Bones_ – had walked in on you doing this once (why would she if she wasn't your wife?) and it had caused quite a bit of laughter to be sent your way. Naturally, apparently, Sweets had made a few jokes about it to you, and you had replied that it was a method you had picked up in the Rangers (you were still getting your head wrapped around that, for it was almost too hard to believe) to relax by surrounding yourself in your escapes from childhood.

It wasn't working tonight, and you weren't entirely sure that it would ever work. You're just too different of a person now…and that scares you. There are so many things about the life that you have seemingly left behind that seem good, things that you should be proud of, that you can't bring yourself to accept. This scares you, oh how it scares you.

You have a kid that apparently means the world to you (and why wouldn't he, he's _your kid_) that you haven't had the courage to call since you got out of the coma because you're worried that you won't feel anything anymore for him. What kind of a monster are you? What kind of monster is worried that he won't feel anything for his own child? Apparently your own father had trouble with some of the same issues (or so Sweet had made mention in one of the many sessions that you two have had), which only serves to fuel your fear.

Then there was Bren – no, _Bones_ – running off to South America. That hurt in ways that you still didn't want to deal with. The look on her face when you asked who she was one that was easy to recognize the heartbreak in because you saw it when you looked in the mirror every day. You weren't married to her, but her face, and the memories that they stirred made it clear to you that you were in love with her, and from what you had gleaned from talking with Sweets you two were best friends. Best friends and nothing more. That stung just a little bit more than you were willing to admit.

You sigh and stand up and get out of the tub. You click the turntable off – you're not going to lie, you did enjoy the music, and it did trigger a reaction in the back of your mind that you still liked it – take your helmet off, and grab a towel and walk into your bedroom. When you had first come home the order and the discipline of an Army Ranger (a sniper at that, you couldn't forget for a lot of the muscle memory apparently fed back to your training), and FBI Agent littered the place. It was the personal touches that triggered chords of memory in the back of your mind, playing an almost familiar song that let you know that you weren't quite as lost as you felt at time.

It was almost enough to give you hope for your situation, but then you remembered that all that you felt around you were long forgotten memories, and that some of these things were enough to drag up 'memories' from your dream that scorched your skin and left you even more confused as to what reality actually was, and what it wasn't.

You sigh as you walk over to your dresser and pull out a pair of shorts to wear to bed. Sweets wants to see you early tomorrow for breakfast, and you find yourself looking forward to it slightly. Memories shared of time spent with Sweets pops in the back of your mind, but nothing that 'turns the key' so to speak in unlocking just _who you are_.

There is one thing that can, but you're not sure if you truly want to look at it. In the two weeks that you had been out of your coma, and showing almost no improvement Sweets had mentioned that perhaps looking at your file – a record of your life, basically – could start to spark your memories so that you could start learning how to be, well, _you_ again. The file that was currently sitting on your dresser.

You crawl on top of your bed, and you stare at the ceiling, willing your breath to slow down your heartbeat so that you can sleep again, the only place that seems to make any sense lately. You don't tell this to Sweets, but your dreams are almost like flashbacks to the one that you had while you were in the coma. Yes, they cause your heart to wither every morning when you wake up and remember once again that they aren't real…but you'll take that pain because it makes more sense to you then the real world.

You look over at your dresser that has your file on it. You know that reading it will forever change you; hopefully back into who you were Sweets mentioned. At least give your brain the right direction to take so that these tiny spark of memories, and familiar chords of remembrance

You push the thought out of your mind, for as much confusion and pain that you live in now, you're not totally sure that you want to completely surrender the memories of your dream to the reality that is Seeley Booth.

_{}_

_Author's Note: After repeated viewings of the season four finale, the first episode of season five, and the other episodes from season five (so far) I've come to the conclusion that Bone's coma and the ramifications from it just didn't sit that well with me. Sure, they were briefly touched on (ie why wasn't Booth wearing his Cocky belt buckle with the gaudy ties and socks? Why didn't the clown affect him at all?) but then almost as quickly forgotten. This is my try at reconciling what is on the show with what I feel should have been expanded upon more. Review and let me know what you think so far!_


	2. CH 1: Everything In It's Right Place

**On the Midnight Mile  
**_by Hobbesian_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Bones._

**Chapter One: Everything In Its Right Place**

As you walk into the diner you can already see Sweets' body language formulating itself into a question.

"No," you say, "I didn't read the file."

He looks a little put out at you – a flicker of another lifetime in the back of your mind reminds you that as much as he supposedly looked up to you that still didn't stop him from running experiments with you as the test subject every so often.

"Do you mind if I ask why?" he asks, and you consider the question while you place your order. Sweets was doing everything that he could to help you. He could have very easily told the FBI that you were a lost cause; that it would take too much effort. You could very easily be collecting a medical pension right now if the shrink who also masqueraded as your best male friend (supposedly) had said so. But he didn't, so even if at times you felt that his faith in you was misguided you decide to answer him honestly.

"I'm not sure I can handle it," you sigh, as Sweets gives you a calculating – yet understanding – look.

"Understandable," he responds, taking a small sip of his coffee as the waitress brings yours over, "Your brain concocted a completely separate life for you to cope with while you were in your coma, and the knowledge that it isn't real is something that's going to take time to get used to."

Something about his words causes you to bristle slightly, "But how much time Sweets? Everything around me feels like it belongs to someone else and I'm just renting someone else's life until they come back!"

You take a breath, taking a small sip of coffee before trying your best (and not exactly succeeding) not to slam the mug onto the table, "What if I don't like this life Sweets? What do I do then?"

You're really trying not to lose it, but your frustration level has just about reached its limit. You look up and see your dining companion looking at you with understanding. Which almost causes you to lose it again, right then and there. You don't want understanding you want-

"I want to go back to that life Sweets," you mumble. You expect him to stare at you in shock, in pity, in _something_ but instead all you seem to get is more of that damn understanding. Sweets seems to sense to pending powder keg of repressed emotion that's about to tip off, so he interrupts you before you can say anything else.

"Listen," he says, holding up a calming hand that you force yourself to take a few calming breaths at. It wouldn't do much good for you to completely lose it in the middle of this diner. Once he senses that you've calmed down (only ever so slightly) the young psychologist continues, "Listen Booth, I know this is probably one of the hardest things that you've ever had to face. It's going to be tough, and it's going to be painful, and I've told you this already."

"But why do I have to go back to that life Sweets?" you ask, knowing that the question it patently ridiculous.

"Because that dream isn't _you_ Booth," he responds, seemingly on the verge of frustration, "No matter how much you wish for it to be, it isn't…"

He trails off for a second, almost like an idea just occurred to him. You look at him expectantly, motioning with your hands for him to spit out whatever has just taken over his mind.

"Booth, I need you to go in for an MRI today," he remarks, "Just go to the hospital and I'll have them waiting for you. I'll see you tomorrow in my office at nine. In the meantime I need you to at least start looking at that file."

You sigh, as you really don't want to look at that file. Doing so would be admitting that the life that you had, the life where everything made sense, wasn't real. That it was fake. That Bren – that it had all been a dream.

"Booth?" you hear Sweets question when you don't respond immediately. You look up at him and see his expectant face.

"Why do you want me to get the MRI done?" you ask, trying to delay what you know is the inevitable.

"A theory I have that might be able to help," he replies, and then without missing a beat he adds, "And you will at least _start_ looking at the file?"

You hesitate again, and finally cause his frustration to boil over.

"Goddamn it Booth, do you know how much I am laying on the line for you?" he demands, and you feel a faint flicker of remorse spike in the back of your head, "Do you know how easily I can just say, 'Agent Booth's brain is broken, it's going to be like that for a while, you should just cut him loose?'"

"I know Sweets, I know," you mumble, trying to cut him off. You're not totally successful.

"Then you need to meet me halfway here!" he exclaims, waving off the waitress that came to refill your coffees, "I need you to try! That's all! You know you'll have to do it eventually, but if you want to come back to your job then you NEED to start working on this."

You sigh, letting his words wash over you, feeling his anger. On some level, you know that you deserve the angry words, the reprimand. Hearing these words once again sparks a feeling in the back of your mind, something almost familiar, but once again its unexplainable origin just causes you more frustration. This frustration is what finally causes you to look back up at Sweets.

"I'll look at the file," you promise, "I'll look at the file."

"That's all that I'm asking Booth," Sweets replies, looking almost happy, "Now I need you to go to the hospital, I'll make sure they're waiting for you so we can get you right in."

"Alright," you respond, starting to stand up. You go to toss some money on the table, and as you do Sweets grabs your hand for a quick second.

"If you need anything, anything at all," he states, compassion in his voice, "Don't be afraid to call me. Remember, I'm your friend first here."

"I'll try to remember that, Sweets," you reply with a bit of a grin in your voice. The reply had come naturally, easy. It had felt like a phrase you had said a thousand times before, and it almost trips you up because of this disjointed and inexplicable memory. You know that your brief faltering is noticed by Sweets, but you're glad that he doesn't say anything, only let's you leave.

As you walk out into the road you place your sunglasses on and while you know it's a muscle memory, it's a happy one – for you at this point in time anyway. It's an action that has a purpose and a meaning, something that you can explain easily.

You're really hoping that Sweets knows what he is doing because you're really not sure if you can live the rest of your life with brief moments of faltering, and then moments where everything makes sense once again.

* * *

The MRI had finished quickly, as they had been waiting for you just like how Sweets had promised. You were now sitting on your couch with the file in front of you. You're fidgeting with just about everything around you. So far you've made two bowls of soup, turned the lights on and off, and kept turning your stereo on and off.

You heave yourself off the couch and walk over to the kitchen, the entire time promising yourself this is the last time you were going to delay. You had made a promise to Sweets, and you knew without a shadow of a doubt that you did not break your promises. In this life or the other one.

You entered your kitchen and once again your eyes glanced over to the pictures that were on your refrigerator. You had turned each of them upside down because the emotions that each picture brought up disturbed you because you didn't know why you were feeling these emotions. Every picture except one, that one being of Bren – no, _Bones_ get it right – and yourself. You stare at it for a few moments as the memories of your 'dream' wash over you again.

She had been pregnant, and you had been in love. Then you woke up to a world where the two of you were only best friends, and she was decidedly not pregnant. In fact, there had never been a 'two of you' in this reality.

You close your eyes as you feel the wave of hurt and confusion start to swirl within you. Why did she seemingly just get up and leave you here? You weren't together but from the whispers that you had heard she was your best friend? Wasn't she?

You set your cup down, and decide to bite the bullet. There's no use hiding anymore, and these questions that keep popping up into your head that you have no explanation for are starting to get tired. You know that you're not going to like it, as in some manner it feels almost like you're murdering a part of yourself.

But you need to know. You need to know why this version of Seeley Booth is the one that everyone wants over the one where your life was perfect. If not for yourself, but for this version of Seeley Booth, who deserves answers that maybe you can give him.

You pick up the file and will yourself to open it up. You close your eyes, and take a deep breath, willing your pulse to slow down. You mentally prepare yourself, and then you open your eyes.

_{}_

_Author's Note: Before I forget to mention, this is eventually going to turn into a Booth/Bones story. After this chapter we will start to get into more of a deconstruction of Booth's personality and how it builds itself back up to where he actually _is_ Booth again, and not this construct that he's had to piece together after a traumatic experience, and, well…anything more would just be giving the story away._

_Hope you've enjoyed, and please review!_


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